A Confederacy of Dunces (Chap. 8.3)

A Confederacy of Dunces (Chap. 8.3) Lyrics

Santa Battaglia tasted a spoonful of the potato salad, cleaned the spoon with her tongue, and placed the spoon neatly on a paper napkin next to the plate of salad. Sucking some pieces of parsley and onion from between her teeth, she said to the picture of her mother on the mantelpiece, “They gonna love that. Nobody makes a good potatis salad like Santa.”

The parlor was almost ready for the party. On top of the old console radio there were two fifths of Early Times and a six-bottle carton of Seven-Up. The phonograph she had borrowed from her niece sat on the mopped linoleum in the center of the room, the cord rising to the chandelier where it was plugged in. Two giant-sized bags of potato chips rested in either corner of the red plush sofa. A fork stuck out of the open bottle of olives that she had placed on a tin tray on top of the covered and folded rollaway bed.

Santa grabbed the picture on the mantelpiece, a photograph of an ancient and hostilelooking woman in a black dress and black stockings standing in a dark alley paved with oyster shells.

“Poor momma,” Santa said feelingly, giving the picture a loud, wet kiss. The grease on the glass that covered the photograph showed the frequency of these affectionate onslaughts. “You sure had it hard, kid.” The little black coals of Sicilian eyes glared almost animatedly at Santa from the snapshot. “The only picture of you I got, momma, and you standing in a alley. Ain’t that a shame.”

Santa sighed at the unfairness of it all and slammed the picture down on the mantelpiece among the bowl of wax fruit and the bouquet of paper zinnias and the statue of the Virgin Mary and the figurine of the Infant of Prague. Then she went back to the kitchen to get some ice cubes and one of the kitchen chairs. After she had returned with the chair and a little picnic cooler of ice cubes, she arranged her best jelly glasses on the mantelpiece before her mother’s picture. The proximity of the picture made her grab it and kiss it again, the ice cube in her mouth cracking against the glass.

“I say a prayer for you every day, babe,” Santa told the snapshot incoherently, balancing the ice cube on her tongue. “You better believe they’s a candle burning for you over in St. Ode’s.”

Someone knocked at the front shutters. In putting the picture down hurriedly, Santa tipped it over on its face.

“Irene!” Santa screamed when she opened the door and saw the hesitant Mrs. Reilly on the front steps and her nephew, Patrolman Mancuso, standing down on the banquette. “Come on in, sweetheart darling. You sure looking cute.”

“Thanks, honey,” Mrs. Reilly said. “Whoo! I forgot how long it takes to drive down here. Me and Angelo been in that car almost a hour.”

“Id’s the traffig is whad id is,” Patrolman Mancuso offered.

“Listen to that cold,” Santa said. “Aw, Angelo. You better tell them men at the precinct to take you out that toilet. Where’s Rita?”

“She diddit feel like cubbig. She’s got her a headache.”

“Well, no wonder, locked up in that house with them kids all day long,” Santa said. “Aw, she oughta get out, Angelo. What’s wrong with that girl?”

“Nerbs,” Angelo answered sadly. “She’s got nerbous trouble.”

“Nerves is terrible,” Mrs. Reilly said. “You know what happened, Santa? Angelo lost the book Ignatius give him. Ain’t that a shame. I don’t mind about the book, but don’t never tell Ignatius about it. We’ll really have us a fight on our hands.”

Mrs. Reilly put her finger to her lips to indicate that the book must forever be a secret.

“Well, gimme your coat, girl,” Santa said eagerly, almost tearing Mrs. Reilly’s old purple woolen topper off. She was determined that the ghost of Ignatius J. Reilly would not haunt her party as it had haunted so many evenings of bowling.

“Yeah, but I want to get me some new linoleum for the parlor. You ever used them paper curtains, honey? They don’t look too bad. I seen some nice ones up by Maison Blanche.”

“I bought some nice paper curtains for Ignatius’ room once, but he tore them off the window and crumpled them up. He says they an abortion. Ain’t that awful?”

“Everybody to his own taste,” Santa observed quickly.

“Ignatius don’t know I come here tonight. I told him I was going to a novena.”

“Angelo, fix Irene here a nice drink. Take a little whiskey yourself, help out that cold. I got some cokes in the kitchen.”

“Ignatius don’t like novenas neither. I don’t know what that boy likes. Personally, I’m getting kinda fed up on Ignatius, even if he is my own child.”

“I fixed us a good potatis salad, girl. That old man tells me he likes a good potatis salad.”

“You oughta see them big uniforms he’s giving me to launder. And all the directions I get on how to wash them. He sounds like he’s selling soap powder on the TV. Ignatius acts like he’s really made good pushing that wagon around downtown.”

“Look at Angelo, babe. He’s fixing us a nice drink.”

“You got any aspirins, honey?”

“Aw, Irene! What kinda party pooper I got on my hands! Take a drink. Wait till the old man comes. We gonna have us a nice time. Look, you and the old man can dance right in front the phonograph.”

“Dance? I don’t feel like dancing with no old man. Besides, my feet swole up this afternoon while I was ironing them uniforms.”

“Irene, you can’t disappoint him, girl. You shoulda seen his face when I invited him out in front the church. Poor old man. I bet nobody ast him out.”

“He wanted to come, huh?”

“Wanted to come? He ast me should he wear a suit.”

“And what you told him, honey?”

“Well, I said, ‘Wear whatever you want, mister.’”

“Ignatius ast me why I was wearing a cocktail dress to go to a novena. He’s sitting in his room right now writing some foolishness; I says, ‘What’s that you writing now, boy?’ And he say, ‘I’m writing about being a weenie vendor.’ Ain’t that terrible? Who want to read a story like that? You know how much he brought home from that weenie place today? Four dollars. How I’m gonna payoff that man?”

“Look. Angelo fixed us a nice hi-ball.”

Mrs. Reilly took a jelly glass from Angelo and drank half of it in two gulps.

“Where you got that nice high-fly from, darling?”

“What you mean?” Santa asked.

“That gramophone you got in the middle of the floor.”

“That’s my little niece’s. She’s precious. Just graduated outta St. Odo High and she’s awready got her a good saleslady job.”

“Go ahead, babe. I’m gonna take your coat back in the kitchen and see how Angelo’s making out. I sure got two happy people at my party so far. I hope that old man don’t fall down and break his leg on the way over.”

After Santa had left, Mrs. Reilly filled her glass with bourbon and added a jigger of Seven-Up. She picked up the spoon, tasted the potato salad, and, cleaning the spoon with her lips, put it back on the paper napkin. The family in the other half of Santa’s double house was beginning to stage what sounded like a riot. Sipping her drink, Mrs. Reilly put her ear to the wall and tried to filter some meaning out of the loud shouting.

“Angelo’s taking some cough medicine,” Santa said as she returned to the parlor.

“You sure got you good walls in this building, babe,” Mrs. Reilly said, unable to comprehend the gist of the argument on the other side of the wall. “I wish me and Ignatius lived here. Miss Annie wouldn’t have nothing to complain about.”

“Where’s that old man?” Santa asked the front shutters.

“Maybe he ain’t gonna come.”

“Maybe he forgot.”

“That’s the way it is with old folks, honey.”

“He ain’t that old, Irene.”

“How old is he?”

“Someplace in his late sixties, I guess.”

“Well, that ain’t too old. My poor old Tante Marguerite, the one I told you them kids beat up on to get fifty cents out her coin purse, she going on eighty.” Mrs. Reilly finished her drink. “Maybe he went to see a nice picture show or something. Santa, you mind if I make me another drink.”

“Irene! You gonna be on the floor, girl. I ain’t gonna introduce no drunk to this nice old man.”

“I’ll make me a small one. I got nerves tonight.”

Mrs. Reilly slopped a great deal of whiskey into her glass and sat down again, crushing one of the bags of potato chips.

“Oh, Lord, what I done now?”

“You just smashed them potato chips,” Santa said a little angrily.

“Aw, they all crumbs now,” Mrs. Reilly said, pulling the bag from beneath her. She studied the flattened cellophane. “Listen, Santa, what time you got? Ignatius says he’s sure the burglars is striking tonight and for me to get in early.”

“Oh, take it easy, Irene. You just got here.”

“To tell you the truth, Santa, I don’t think I want to meet this old man.”

“Well, it’s too late now.”

“Yeah, but what me and this old man gonna do?” Mrs. Reilly asked apprehensively.

“Aw, relax, Irene. You making me nervous. I’m sorry I axt you over.” Santa pulled Mrs. Reilly’s drink down from her lips for a moment. “Now listen to me. You had arthritis very bad. The bowling’s helping that out. Right? You was stuck home with that crazy boy every night until Santa come along. Right? Now listen to Santa, precious. You don’t wanna end up all alone with that Ignatius on your hands. This old man looks like he’s got him a little money. He dresses neat. He knows you from somewhere. He likes you.” Santa looked Mrs. Reilly in the eye. “This old man can pay off your debt!”

“Yeah?” Mrs. Reilly hadn’t thought of this before. The old man suddenly became a little more attractive. “He’s clean?”

“You remember,” Mr. Robichaux said to her. “It was downtown by Holmes. That policeman tried to take in your boy and he took me in instead.”

Santa’s eyes opened wide.

“Oh yeah,” Mrs. Reilly said. “I think I remember now. A little.”

“It wasn’t your fault though, Miss Reilly. It’s them police. They all a bunch of communiss.”

“Not so loud,” Mrs. Reilly cautioned. “They got thin walls in this building.” She moved her elbow and knocked her empty glass off the arm of the sofa. “Oh, Lord. Santa, maybe you oughta go tell Angelo to run along. I can get me a taxi. Tell him he can run out the back way. It’s easier for him. You know?”

“I see whatcha mean, honey.” Santa turned to Mr. Robichaux. “Listen, when you seen my friend and me down by the bowling alley, you didn’t see no man with us, huh?”

“You ladies was all alone.”

“Wasn’t that the night A. got himself arrested?” Mrs. Reilly whispered to Santa.

“Oh, yeah, Irene. You come by for me in that car of yours. You remember the fender came loose entirely right in front the bowling alley.”

“I know. I got it in the backseat. Ignatius is the one made me wreck that car, he got me so nervous from the backseat.”

“Aw, no,” Mr. Robichaux said. “The one thing I can’t stand is a poor loser or a bad sport.”

“If somebody does me dirt,” Santa continued, “I try to turn the other cheek. You know what I mean? That’s the Christian way. Ain’t that right, Irene?”

“Irene!” Santa said angrily. “You know, Mr. Robichaux, now suppose you saw that cop that took you in.”

“I hope I never see him again,” Mr. Robichaux said with emotion. “He’s a dirty communiss. Them people want to set up a police state.”

“Yeah, but just supposing. Wouldn’t you forgive and forget?”

“Santa,” Mrs. Reilly interrupted, “I think I’m gonna run in the kitchen and see if you got some nice aspirins.”

“It was the disgrace,” Mr. Robichaux said to Santa. “My whole family heard about it. The police called up my daughter.”

“Aw, that ain’t nothing,” Santa said. “Everybody gets took in some time in they life. You see her?” Santa picked up the photograph lying face down on the mantelpiece and showed it to her two guests. “My poor dear momma. The police took her out the Lautenschlaeger Market four times for disturbing the peace.” Santa paused to give the
snapshot a moist kiss. “You think she cared? Not her.”

Mrs. Reilly went over to the old console radio and poured herself a glass of Early Times.

“I’ll never forget that Patrolman Mancuso,” Mr. Robichaux was saying.

“Mancuso?” Santa asked with great surprise. “I got plenty relatives with that very same name. As a matter of fact, one of them’s on the force. As a matter of fact, he’s here now.”

“I think I hear Ignatius calling me. I better go.”

“Calling you?” Santa asked. “Whadda you mean, Irene? Ignatius is six miles away uptown. Look, we ain’t even give Mr. Robichaux a drink. Fix him a drink, kid, while I go get Angelo.” Mrs. Reilly studied her drink furiously in the hope of turning up a roach or at least a fly. “Gimme that coat, Mr. Robichaux. Whatcha friends call you?”

“Claude.”

“Claude, I’m Santa. And that there’s Irene. Irene, say ‘hello.’”

“Hello,” Mrs. Reilly said automatically.

“You two make friends while I’m gone,” Santa said and disappeared into the other room.

“How’s that fine big boy of yours?” Mr. Robichaux asked to end the silence that had fallen.

“Who?”

“Your son.”

“Oh, him. He’s okay.” Mrs. Reilly’s mind flew back to Constantinople Street where she had left Ignatius writing in his room and mumbling something about Myrna Minkoff. Through the door, Mrs. Reilly had heard Ignatius saying to himself, “She must be lashed until she drops.”

There was a long silence broken only by the violent sipping noises that Mrs. Reilly made on the rim of her glass.

“You want some nice potato chips?” Mrs. Reilly finally asked, for she found that the silence made her even more ill at ease.

“Yeah, I think I would.”

“They right in the bag next to you.” Mrs. Reilly watched Mr. Robichaux open the cellophane package. His face and his gray gabardine suit both seemed to be neat and freshly pressed. “Maybe Santa needs some help. Maybe she went and fell down.”

“I gotta do something. I gotta call the authorities to come take that boy away,” Mrs. Reilly sobbed. She paused to take a mouthful of Early Times. “Maybe they put him in a detention home or something.”

“Ain’t he thirty years old?”

“My heart’s broke.”

“Ain’t he writing something?”

“Some foolishness nobody never gonna feel like reading. Now him and that Myrna writing insults to each other. Ignatius is telling me he’s gonna get that girl good. Ain’t that awful? Poor Myrna.”

Mr. Robichaux, unable to think of anything to say, asked, “Why don’t you get a priest to talk to your boy?”

“A priest?” Mrs. Reilly wept. “Ignatius won’t listen to no priest. He calls the priest in our parish a heretic. They had a big fight when Ignatius’ dog died.” Mr. Robichaux could find no comment for that enigmatic statement. “It was awful. I thought I’d get throwed out the Church. I don’t know where that boy gets his ideas from. It’s a good thing his poor poppa’s dead. He’d be breaking his poor father’s heart with that weenie wagon.”

“What weenie wagon?”

“He’s out on the streets pushing a weenie wagon all over.”

“Oh. He’s got him a job now.”

“A job?” Mrs. Reilly sobbed. “It’s all over my neighborhood. The lady next door’s been asking me a million questions. All Constantinople Street’s talking about him. When I think of all the money I spent on that boy’s education. You know, I thought chirren was supposed to comfort you in your old age. What kind a comfort Ignatius is giving me?”

“Yeah?” Mrs. Reilly asked with interest, dabbing at her eyes with the skirt of her green taffeta cocktail dress, unaware that she was showing Mr. Robichaux the wide runs in her stockings at the knee. “Maybe that’s what’s wrong with Ignatius. It’s just like a communiss to treat his momma bad.”

“Ax that boy what he thinks of democracy some time.”

“I sure will,” Mrs. Reilly said happily. Ignatius was just the type to be a communist. He even looked like one a little. “Maybe I can scare him.”

“That boy shouldn’t be giving you trouble. You got a very fine character. I admire that in a lady. When I recognized you down by the bowling alley with Miss Battaglia, I says to myself, ‘I hope I can meet her some time.’”

“You said that?”

“I admired your integrity, standing up for that boy in front that dirty cop, especially if you got troubles with him at home. That takes courage.”

“I wisht I woulda let Angelo take him away. None of this other stuff woulda happened. Ignatius woulda been locked up safe in jail.”

“Who’s Angelo?”

“There! I hadda go open my big mouth. What I said, Claude?”

“Something about Angelo.”

“Lord, lemme go see if Santa’s okay. Poor thing. Maybe she burnt herself on the stove. Santa’s all the time getting herself burnt. She don’t take care around the fire, you know.”

“If Ignatius woulda been nice to Angelo, none of this woulda happened,” Mrs. Reilly explained to her audience. “Just look at the cold poor Angelo’s got. He’s got him a hard road, Claude.”

You tell him, girl,” Santa said. “Angelo got that cold on account of he took you in, Claude.” Santa waved a stubby finger at Mr. Robichaux a little accusingly. “Now he’s stuck in a toilet. Next thing they gonna kick him off the force.”

Patrolman Mancuso coughed sadly.

“Maybe I got a little excited,” Mr. Robichaux conceded.

“I shouldn’t of toog you id,” Angelo breathed. “I got nerbous.”

“It was all my fault,” Mrs. Reilly said, “for trying to protect that Ignatius. I should of let you lock him away, Angelo.” Mrs. Reilly turned her white, powdery face to Mr. Robichaux. “Mr. Robichaux, you don’t know Ignatius. He makes trouble everyplace he goes.”

“Somebody oughta punch that Ignatius in the nose;” Santa said eagerly.

“Okay,” Mr. Robichaux said. He took Angelo’s blue-white hand and shook it limply.

“Ain’t that nice,” Mrs. Reilly said. “Come sit on the sofa, Claude, and Santa can play her precious little niece’s high-fly.”

While Santa put a Fats Domino record on the phonograph, Angelo, sniffling and looking a little confused, sat down on the kitchen chair across from Mrs. Reilly and Mr. Robichaux.

“Now ain’t this nice,” Mrs. Reilly screamed brightly over the deafening piano and bass. “Santa, honey, you wanna turn that down a little?”

The thumping rhythm decreased slightly in volume.

“Okay,” Santa shouted at her guests. “Now everybody make friends while I go get us some plates for my good potatis salad. Hey, come on, Irene and Claude. Let’s see you kids shake a leg.”

The two little coal-black eyes scowled down at her from the mantelpiece as she stomped gaily out of the room. The three guests, drowned in the pounding beat of the phonograph, silently studied the rose-colored walls and the floral patterns on the linoleum. Then, suddenly, Mrs. Reilly screamed to the two gentleman, “You know what? Ignatius was running the water in the tub when I left, and I bet he forgot to turn it off.” When no one answered, she added, “Mothers got a hard road.”